


A Wooden Edge

by Ias



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: BAMF Frigga, Female Friendship, Gen, POV Female Character, Pre-Canon, Swordfighting, is there any other kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:10:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No warrior is born knowing how to swing a sword. But some do learn better than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wooden Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Since I have not read the comics, this exploration of Sif's backstory is mostly based off of what we've learned of it from the movies. Also working under the assumption that Asgardian sword technique is not too dissimilar from German longsword fighting. Also working under the assumption that I know anything about German longsword fighting. >.>

Sword-fighting was not so easy as it looked. Everyone had always said the same, usually while climbing to their feet after an unfavorable sparring match while Sif howled with laughter from the sidelines. It certainly didn't look so hard. You swung the sword until you hit something. There was probably some blocking technique in there somewhere, maybe a flourish for the sake of looking impressive, but in the end it was just a fancy way of putting metal in the people you didn't like.

As it turned out, having the point of a practice sword driven into her gut was an effective method of dispelling that idea. And her memory of how to breathe.

“On your feet, soldier,” Sif forced her body to unfold from the fetal position for long enough to turn to the figure towering above her. Armsmaster Tyr's weathered face was etched with a scowl, but that was hardly surprising. Thor had once joked that a lighter expression on the old weapons-keeper's face would be the first sign of Ragnarok. Sif had found that jest much more amusing when she wasn't face-to-face with those famously darkened brows.

“I said on your feet,” he grunted, giving her a swift jab with the armored toe of his boot. She nearly tipped over, still too out of breath to voice a cry of complaint or beg for a reprieve. With the threat of more of Tyr's persuasion at hand, she somehow managed to wrangle her feet together and hoist herself up. Her hands stayed welded to her knees to keep her from toppling over as she struggled to breathe again. Her sword lay forgotten ten paces away, where it had landed as her opponent brutally disarmed her.

A muscle pulsed in Tyr's arm, the one which abruptly ended in a metal claw. Sif imagined he was probably flexing his phantom hand as it wrapped around her imaginary neck. It was always a sign of the abuse one of his trainees was about to receive. She'd come to know it well.

“You call that a technique?” he bellowed. “Your grip was sloppy, footwork nonexistent, and your left side was open through the entire maneuver! You're lucky that Fanir was so gentle on you; he could have easily sliced through one of your pretty eyes. Look at me when I'm speaking to you, soldier!”

Sif forced herself upright, her eyes shifting to a point in the middle of Tyr's forehead and attempting to blot out everything else. She bore the rest of his diatribe with a straight back and a tightened jaw before he dismissed her from the field early. When she passed by Fanir she caught the end of a smug smile flitting across his face. A few other trainees had paused to watch as well. Her failures were becoming popular and frequent entertainment.

On the balcony above the sparring field, she caught a glimpse of a pair of figures watching the action below. Odin often came down to observe the new trainees' progress, but it was less often that his wife Frigga would grace the field. Sif gritted her teeth. The weight of her embarrassment only increased with each new spectator. She stepped out of the brightly lit courtyard with her shoulders hunched in shame.

Her walk towards the armory was a swift one. A few of her fellows hailed her as she strode past, but her eyes passed through them like the prow of a ship through the morning mist. She was in no mood for pleasantries today.

“Sif!” With a sinking feeling, she recognized the new voice calling her name; it was not one to be deterred by a dark expression or a sharp word. Her feet sped up, but it wasn't enough; a firm hand grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around, bringing her face-to-face with a widely grinning Thor, his blue eyes crinkled in laughter.

“That was the greatest display of fury I have ever seen from Tyr!” Thor laughed, slapping her heartily on the back. “I congratulate you. I thought his false hand was about to pop right off.”

“Not now, Thor,” Sif said gruffly as she shrugged off his hand and continued on her way. Or tried to, at least. She was blocked just as quickly by a lithe shape stepping out from around the corner, a similar smirk creeping across his face.

“You needn't be so upset,” Loki said. He at least made more of an effort to restrain his amusement as he fell into step with her, despite her efforts to outpace him and his brother both. “Tyr is infamous for his bad temper. The fact that you provoke it so frequently is merely circumstance.”

“I am not in a mood for jests,” Sif snapped. “Leave me, both of you.”

“Don't worry, Sif,” Thor said jocuarly. “We're all impressed with the progress you've made. I certainly did not expect you to come so far.”

She didn't miss the sharp look that Loki shot his brother, but Thor did. Nor did he notice the hurt in her eyes which she quickly dragged beneath the hardness on her face. With a sigh, Loki took his brother's arm and pulled him back from Sif's breakneck pace.

“Come, brother,” she heard him say. “Give the Lady some time to hang up her sword, lest she deposit it in your groin.” The remainder of the walk Sif spent in bitter, brooding silence.

The floor of the training armory was bathed in late-afternoon sunlight, making the shadows in the corner seem dusty and warm. She paid them all no heed. The door swung shut behind her, leaving her alone with the empty breastplates and unwielded swords.

Although it was tempting to throw her armor down on the floor as a small gesture of rebellion against Tyr's cruelty, she knew better than to further tempt his wrath. She buffed the latest scratches out of her armor, and hung her practice sword on the rack among the others. Supposedly they were all exactly the same, but she had switched a couple of times to be sure she wasn't being given the disadvantage by an uneven balance or poor grip. She wasn't.

It would still be quite a while before the rest of the more competent trainees were released; she could have some time to herself. Sinking down onto the bench, she finally let the full weight of her frustrations crash down around her. Being dismissed early was by far the worst punishment Tyr could dole out, and he knew that. It meant that she was unworthy of trying again; that he thought even more practice would be useless. A lost cause, that's what he saw in her.

She had quickly learned that becoming a warrior would be difficult. She had come to anticipate the adversity. But imagining was different from experiencing, and she was beginning to wonder whether her resolve would last. Perhaps the look of disappointment on her parents' faces would be more bearable than the thrust of a dull sword to her stomach, or the cruel laughter of her peers.

“That scowl on your face is one Tyr himself would be proud of.”

When Sif looked up, there was a person silhouetted in the doorway. Sunlight fell on her golden hair and glinted off the silver of her ornamental breastplate, her mouth curled in half a smile with her hands folded before her.

“Lady Frigga!” Sif lept to her feet and bowed hastily, the color rising in her cheeks. A repeat of her earlier performance played through her head. “I apologize. I did not hear you come in.”

“I did not wish to be heard.” Frigga stepped into the armory, her grey eyes travelling over the racks of dulled swords, wooden shields, and boiled leather breastplates there. As a childhood friend of her sons, Sif had been in Frigga's presence more often than most could claim to. Her intimidating aura was certainly not dulled by time or exposure, Sif had found. The warmth and kindness that Thor and Loki enjoyed were often restrained around others. Here she was fully the Queen.

“Are you here in search of Thor?” Sif asked hesitantly.

“Not at all. I came here for you.” Sif bit back her surprise. There was something different about Frigga's demeanor, as if a glass wall that had been between them all along had fallen away without her noticing. “Shouldn't you be out on the training field?”

“Armsmaster Tyr has deemed it fit for me to leave training earlier today,” Sif said, struggling to keep the bitter edge out of her voice.

Frigga tsked. “Foolish. What does he hope such a move to accomplish?”

“Likely he wants to prevent another disgraceful performance until the morrow.”

“'Disgraceful?' Is that how he described it?” Frigga positively smirked. “You should have seen Tyr when he was first training to become a warrior. He bumbled through most of his practice drills, and was more of a danger to himself than his opponents. Yet now not even a missing hand could keep him from the fight.”

Sif bowed her head to hide the incredulous expression threatening to cross her face. “Forgive me, My Lady. I cannot imagine Tyr bumbling through anything.”

Frigga smiled. “Not even a master is born with a sword in hand, nor the knowledge to use it. Such things would be quite dangerous for their mothers.”

Sif shared in the joke with a faint smile of her own. “Yet in the end, a sword is most dangerous to whoever wields it.”

Frigga settled down on the bench, crossing her legs and lacing her fingers over her knee as she fixed Sif with a penetrating look. “Wise words. Do you fear danger?”

Sif hesitated. “No, My Lady. I do not.” Frigga's hand unfolded to invite Sif to the bench beside her. After a moment's pause spent contemplating her lapsing decorum, Sif obliged her. “I do fear death, and I do fear suffering. But I have come to understand that these both are inevitable, and are best faced on our own terms.” She frowned. “Although I am beginning to think that there is no place for my death on the battlefield.”

“Why do you say that?” Frigga's voice was suddenly sharp, and Sif looked away.

“Forgive me, My Lady. I spoke out of turn.”

“You spoke out of the heart. I would ask that you do so again.”

Sif shook her head. “I knew I would face opposition when I decided to pursue a career in swordsmanship. Women soldiers are few, though not unprecedented. Many say that I cannot succeed.”

“And what do my sons say?” There was a knowing look in Frigga's eye.

“They encourage me, Lady. But...” she paused, hesitant to speak ill of Frigga's children to her face. A nod from the Queen urged her on. “I do not think either of them believe me capable of completing my training. Loki hides it well, but I think Thor will always see me as an oddity.”

“And why should you care what others think?”

Sif looked away. It was hard to meet Frigga's eyes. “Because I know that each of my failures reflects not just on me, but on all the women who one day might join the battlefield. My shame belongs to them as much as me.” She stared down at her hands as dejection sunk in. “Perhaps I should withdraw. Before I close to way for those more capable than myself.”

Frigga stared at her for a moment before rising to her feet. She strode over to the weapons rack and selected a training sword from the rack. Her fingers slid over the dull wooden edge with a curious expression on her face before her hands settled on the grip. When she turned back to face Sif, she had taken the Sky guard, with the hilt held off her right shoulder and the blade running vertically beside her head.

“You must keep your strong hand nearest to the blade,” she said, flexing her fingers around the hilt. “The strong hand directs where the point will land. The other hand moves the blade.” Her left hand grasped nearer to the pommel and pulled it back like a lever—the blade tipped forward to stop just inches from Sif's wide eyes. “Do you understand?”

Sif nodded wordlessly. Frigga turned and fell into her guard again, but this time she flowed effortlessly into the very drill Sif had been failing to complete minutes earlier. Her technique was fluid, sparing no excess movement or flourishes. They were calculated strikes, meant to hit without ornamentation or mercy. She finished the drill with a quick, conservative slice to the neck of her imaginary opponent. Sif watched in open amazement. “You were trained in swordfighting techniques?”

“Being Queen is a dangerous occupation,” she said, lowering her weapon. “Not all battles can be fought with words. Or won with them, at any rate.” Frigga's hands loosened on the grip as she turned to offer Sif the hilt. “Stand.”

Sif did so without question, her numb fingers accepting the weapon.

“Take a stance.” There was no room to argue. Wary with every motion, Sif raised her weapon into the attack stance and positioned her feet properly. Frigga stepped right up and made a few adjustments to the position of her hands and legs.

“Relax,” she said, pressing down on Sif's shoulders, which were rock-hard with tension. “You can't move well if you are locked up with stress or fear.”

Blowing a quiet breath of air through her teeth, Sif forced herself to focus on the sword, and only the sword. The fear of disappointing her Queen that had been gnawing in her belly didn't fade, but she allowed herself to rise above it. Frigga nodded in approval.

“Your two hands should be precision and power,” she said. “They are two of the most important elements of sword fighting, and they begin in your grip. It is where the sword meets your body; it should be seamless.”

Sif gave a slow, exaggerated swing, testing out the new grip. It certainly felt more natural in her hands. Frigga walked over to the bench where she had laid the second practice weapon, and picked it up with a deft grip. “Good. Now, complete the drill with me.”

Sif took a step back. “My Lady, I couldn't.”

Frigga raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

Sif struggled to put words to the roiling sea of protests and confusion in her breast. “You're the Queen—I could hurt you—”

She smiled. “That is an optimistic assessment. I assure you it won't be a problem.” Frigga strode a few paces away and turned to face her, lowering the sword into the Plow guard with the hilt near her hip, and inclined her head. “Oblige me this once. Show me the drill.”

Gritting her teeth, Sif fought down her hesitations and forced herself to focus. She stepped forward, beginning in the Roof guard and swinging her sword down as gently as she could towards Frigga's head—

—only to have it met with Frigga's own blade in a loud clack of wood.

“You'll need to be faster than that,” Frigga chided gently, stepping back to her place before. Sif did the same, hissing out a slow breath to steady her nerves before beginning again. She moved quicker this time, only pulling back at the last minute, but her sword slid down to Frigga's hilt and the Queen's tip came to rest on her collarbone with gentle but firm finality.

“You are dead, Lady Sif,” she said wryly. “You must keep your guard up at all times if you wish to survive a battle.”

“How did you learn this?” Sif asked in amazement as she began the drill anew. This time Frigga side-stepped the blow and thumped her on the shoulder with her sword.

“Focus,” she chided. “Only speak if you know you have the skill to fight at the same time. One ill-timed word can easily become your last.”

Sif's jaw clamped shut as she hurried to defend from another blow, each one coming faster than the last. The steps of the drill seemed to fall right out of her head, and all she could do was weather the storm. The few times she managed to get a strike past the flurry of Frigga's blade she was met with the resounding clatter of their swords meeting just a second later. Sif was driven back, nearly tumbling over the bench, her arms burning with every block until it was all she could do to hold on. And then she couldn't do even that as her sword was neatly battered from her hands, and she stumbled to one knee with Frigga's swordpoint at her throat. The older woman wore a grim smile.

“There will be none more capable than you.” She lowered her blade and extended a hand. This time Sif only hesitated an instant before allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. “Whether that is true or not is of no importance. You will decide to make it true.”

Sif bowed low, her heart still beating wildly in her chest. She knew her cheeks must be flushed with exertion, but she hardly cared. It was as if an entirely new part of the world had been revealed to her, a curtain pulled back on possibilities she could never have imagined. “Thank you, My Lady. Truly. My highest aspiration is to be as skilled a swordswoman as you.”

A twinkle sprung up in Frigga's eye. “I challenge you to surpass me,” she said. “And when you think you have, you know where to find me.”

Sif returned the smile. “I will look forward to that day, My Lady.”

With a short nod, Frigga placed her sword in Sif's hands and rested her palm over Sif's fingers. It was hard to believe this was the same woman Sif had seen at court on so many occasions, even the same woman who had strode so boldly into the armory just minutes before. When she looked into her eyes, Sif no longer saw the blue of calm pools, the grey of thunderclouds, or even the shield of court manner. There was steel there. And Sif would never forget it.

As she turned to leave, Frigga paused in the doorway to glance at Sif over her shoulder. “If I could ask one favor, Sif?”

“Anything.” She could not agree fast enough.

Frigga's smile turned mischievous. “Defeat Thor in a sparring match at least once. He has an important lesson awaiting him involving the size of his ego.”

The next moment she was gone, leaving Sif alone in the sun-washed armory with the practice sword clenched in her hands. She looked down at it with a sense of awe quickly overtaken by purpose. This would be the sword with which she completed her training. It would be the sword to defeat her enemies where steel wouldn't do, and it would strike faster and stronger than even Thor could muster. If she was very lucky, it would see her suffer yet another defeat at Frigga's hands. If she perservered, she knew it would see victory.

She slung her chestplate back over her shoulders and headed back in the direction of the training field, sword in hand. If Tyr wanted her to leave, this time he could fight her off.


End file.
